


catching colds

by lejf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Don't take me too seriously, M/M, Mostly porn, basically they pick up a curse where they're unknowingly screwing (each other), otherwise crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8367196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lejf/pseuds/lejf
Summary: “Did you see how they were lookin’ at us?” Dean sounded on the verge of hysteria. His fingers fisted themselves tightly in Sam’s shirt. “Holy shit Sam, holy shit. We– we’ve been giving it up every night!” He whirled away suddenly, hands flying up to clutch at his hair. “They’ve been fucking you, Sammy!”He stared out into the carpark, captured by a movie playing behind his eyes, frozen in his distress.“I’m pretty sure it’s wearing off though, Dean–”Dean whipped back around, jabbing a finger against Sam’s chest as he glared. “‘Pretty sure’ isn’t good enough. We are not going to any bar again until this is one hundred percent over, you hear me?”So they didn’t. Except even when they bedded down in the remotest hotel they could find, locking all the doors, each morning they woke up feeling freshly fucked. For the life of him, Sam just couldn’t wrap his head around the mystery.





	

**Author's Note:**

> kinda dub-conny@ the start but please don't take it too seriously.

They didn’t even notice it at first. In glorious 20/20 hindsight though, the first sign was during one night in South Carolina. After a particularly rambunctious chase and salting and burning through the woods, the two of them hit up a bar and got absolutely plastered — that was, _Dean_ got plastered and started flirting with everything wearing a skirt while Sam sat back, civilised human being that he was, and watched women in low tops sidle up to his brother with a low sense of discontentment humming somewhere between his ribcage and his chest.

But then he woke up the next morning feeling like his ass got destroyed and something had taken a bite out of his memory. He walked around as if on thumbtacks the whole day, wincing whenever he jarred his sore behind. And Dean just cackled at him, all smug after a good fucking, hickeys still visible up his neck.

Sam’s first error was dismissing the incident, figuring that he’d succumbed to drink at some point in the night, eaten something bad, and ripped himself a new one getting it out of his system.

It started happening more often: Sam would be greeted by the cheery-ass visage of the new dawn, completely unaware of what he’d been doing the night before and feeling suspiciously fucked out. And it wasn’t the gross sort of fucked out either. He felt— really, really satisfied, actually. As time wore on, he caught more and more impressions of his late-night escapes. Smooth, toned bodies. Warmth and sweat. A bone-deep contentment, even if his body was sore.

And he wasn’t just him, either. He caught sight of Dean limping a few times, or just frowning into the distance, wondering which girl had stuffed what felt like her entire hand up his ass last night.

Considering Dean was the pinnacle of repression, Sam broached the subject first, because tonight had been a serious fucking and he _was_ really, really, sore. They were in the Impala, where Dean couldn’t run from the conversation, but each rough bump in the road made Sam curse the world. “Dean, hey, uh– Is it just me, or is my memory getting really bad these days?”

Dean side-eyed him, as if gauging where the conversation would go. But Sam was sure Dean knew exactly what he was trying to get at. The fucker was just deciding if he actually wanted to talk about it. “I hear ya, Sammy,” he said eventually, flexing his fingers against the wheel. Sam’s eyes instinctively tracked their movement. Fuck, those _hands_.

“I mean—” Sam began, but then he saw it. The Impala coasted over a speed bump and he _saw_ Dean bear down and grit his teeth a little.

No way to go about it.

“—Do you ever wake up feeling like your ass got reamed?”

Dean froze and gave him the most wide-eyed look he could manage. He wasn’t fooling Sam. “The hell, Sam? Man, if you just wanted to tell me that you liked taking it up the back end, you didn’t need to drag me into–”

“ _Dean._ ” Dean was such a stubborn bastard. “Some days I don’t even want to _walk,_ let alone hunt anything. Seriously, how aren’t you treating this like a problem?”

“I don’t know, man,” Dean said, still rambling. His eyes glancing were all over the road, looking anywhere but Sam. “Sounds to me like you’re just getting some serious wet dreams. Now, Sammy, you see– this is what it's like to be a grownup.”

Sam huffed, let the subject drop and didn’t bring it up again until the next day.

Well, it wasn’t actually Sam who brought it up the next day. It was Dean. Dean, after they’d both walked into a bar they’d spent time at yesterday and people had fucking _wolf-whistled_ and catcalled the second they walked in. All the blood drained from Dean’s face when someone bellowed, “Faggots!”

The next thing Sam knew, the door was swinging behind them and Dean had a death-grip on his arm, the evening chill stinging at his eyes and the familiarity of Impala coming into view.

“Did you see how they were lookin’ at us?” Dean sounded on the verge of hysteria. His fingers fisted themselves tightly in Sam’s shirt. “Holy _shit_ Sam, holy shit. We– we’ve been _giving it up every night!_ ” He whirled away suddenly, hands flying up to clutch at his hair. “They’ve been _fucking_ you, Sammy!”

He stared out into the carpark, captured by a movie playing behind his eyes, frozen in his distress.

“I’m pretty sure it’s wearing off though, Dean–”

Dean whipped back around, jabbing a finger against Sam’s chest as he glared. “‘Pretty sure’ isn’t good enough. We are _not_ going to any bar again until this is one hundred percent over, you hear me?”

So they didn’t. Except even when they bedded down in the remotest hotel they could find, locking all the doors, each morning they woke up feeling freshly fucked. For the life of him, Sam just couldn’t wrap his head around the mystery. He buried himself in books and research: and turned out what they had was a little like the common cold. The common _chastity_ cold. Somewhere along the way they’d presumably picked up a curse that damned them to chastity, and their bodies were subconsciously fighting back. It’d wear off, though, because it was a weak curse. They just had to grit their teeth through it.

Except, you know, ‘subconsciously fighting back’ meant going out to fuck and get fucked.

They tried everything — locked down the motel room tight, drank buckets of coffee to avoid sleeping, but eventually they’d emerge from a lull to find themselves in bed, fingerprint bruises on their hips. Sam came to the distressing conclusion that they were utterly cognisant during the act, evidenced by the one time Dean gave Sam the keys to his Baby so he couldn’t drive out to find a lay, but still finding themselves in a restaurant bathroom (or Dean’s case, the alleyway outside) an hour later with the Impala innocently parked outside and the keys sitting sweetly in Dean’s trouser pockets.

Reality went a bit like this:

Dean had his hands wrapped around the bed frame, back arched wantonly, body rocking forwards with each thrust. A chest was pressed against his back, huge hands reaching forwards to pinch his nipples and pull at his cock. Sam’s dick disappeared into the delicate curve of his ass. It appeared, flushed red, each time Sam pulled out far enough for Dean’s ass to clutch hungrily at it and for Sam to ram back in, groaning as he was squeezed by the tight heat of his brother.

Sam was a relentless force, chasing his orgasm, lighting up Dean’s nerves each time his dick rubbed and scraped over Dean’s prostate. Sweat sheened on both their bodies, and the way Sam seemed to determined to clutch Dean close meant that their skin slipped against each other, Sam’s nipples dragging along Dean’s back.

There were words between them, half-gasped words, incoherent, “Ah, ah, ah,” and swallowed up when Sam leant over to cover Dean’s mouth with his own. His hips hammered away, burying his dick deep into Dean’s ass as his hands moved to grip Dean’s. Their mouths were filled with wet heat, tongues dragging together and teeth catching on each other’s lips.

Sam pulled his mouth away to rest his forehead against Dean’s, each breath a pant, sharing the same air. “I’m– I’m gonna–” Dean lurched forwards to bite at his lips again, and Sam’s hips stuttered as he shuddered and came, mouth falling open and eyes clenched tight. His cock seemed to harden even further, and Dean could feel each pulse and flex of Sam’s dick in him. A faint hint of warmth spread inside, and the knowledge that it was Sam’s come sent Dean over the edge himself, dropping his head in a silent cry as Sam stripped his dick raw.

Twenty minutes later they were at it again, Sam with his fingers coated in lube, buried in himself and riding them, head tipped back, flushed all the way down to his collarbones until Dean could stand it no longer and replaced Sam’s fingers with his own, curling his hand to catch Sam’s prostate.

Here was his Sammy, all unravelled for him, writhing against the covers and gasping his name. There was no hotter sight. His dick was stirring against his stomach, drooling smears of pre-come. He let his fingers run up Sam’s cock and thumbed right under the head, finger’s path smoothed with wetness. When he pressed himself against Sammy, rutting up against him, both fully hard again now, Sammy started to groan in earnest and arch under his touch, jerking his hips up so their dicks could drag together, heads slipping in a little parody of a kiss.

He sunk into Sam with no preamble, hooking Sam’s knees over his, feeling his dick jump as Sam clenched around him with another moan. Being in Sam was heady, made Dean lose his mind, jerk his hips forwards on their own volition to wring out each pretty sound from his brother. Sam could feel Dean pounding away in him, surround him, bite down on his shoulders and then soothe with open-mouthed licks. His hole clung to Dean with each draw and gave way with each thrust. He was bounced on Dean’s cock, split wide open, but just as he began to grow accustomed to Dean’s hot heavy weight in him, he felt Dean’s fingers sneak to the rim of his hole and flirt with the edges.

When one slipped in, he nearly came right there and there. As it was, he managed a good two fingers alongside Dean’s cock before he clamped down and whined through his orgasm, dick only managing a few weak spurts.

But— fast forward: Sam woke up, rolled out of bed, went to fix breakfast only to notice there was come running down his thighs. Again. Funnily enough, when he stuck his head back into the motel room, Dean was in his bed. He wondered if they’d been screwed by the same guy.

He came back with a burger for Dean (because Dean ate junk for breakfast) to find that his brother was in the bathroom.

Ten minutes later he was bent over the kitchen table reading the newspaper. There was a hunt– _umph!_ – down north, and if they started driving soon they’d get there by nightfall. “Dean,” he said, both hands pinning down the paper, “we should take this hunt. There’ve been two schoolgirls h– _uh–_ hung in the forest.”

Dean peered over his shoulder, his dick pounding into Sam’s hole, the table protesting with each thrust. “Yeah, looks good.”

Sam let his head hit the table. He was just a little tired. He could rest for a bit while Dean finished his burger or whatever he was doing.

\--

Sam grew increasingly cognisant as the spell wore off.

Case in point: Dean had them pulled over by the side of the road and was rolling his hips in Sam’s lap, kissing feverishly as Sam pushed deeper into him. He clutched on desperately as Sam started to move, their skin slapping together as he fucked Dean, cock a neat, pumping, line.

Lucidity was a thunderbolt from the blue. Sam had a terrifying moment of _w_ _hat on earth am I doing this is_ **_Dean_ ** _staring me in the eye_ before it was gone, and he had tilted his head to slot his mouth against Dean’s once more.

He wrote it off as a daydream in the Impala. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d dreamt about Dean in that way, though never in such vivid detail. The curse was really messing with his mind, he figured, although all the meticulous reading he’d done had indicated nothing too intrusive about it, aside from the whole constant fucking thing.

But when he started to register that Dean was pretty much _always_ near when he came to and there was always lube nearby, suspicions began to grow. Not to mention the whole lucidity thing. They were up by an interviewee’s house, Sam backed up by the wall, Dean’s hand curling around his neck as he pushed up and into him. “Sammy,” Dean hissed, free hand sliding up Sam’s shirt to smooth over his muscles and play with his peaked nipples. Sam’s dick was free and leaking and curved up towards his stomach, the back of his shirt riding up so his skin was uncomfortably grated by the wall of the house as Dean began to pump into him, fast and hard. In that moment, clarity struck through Sam.

“Dean,” he gasped, suddenly. “What are we _doing_? You’re fucking _me_.” His legs were wrapped around Dean; he was being held  _up_ by Dean.

That stopped him. With a harsh sting of pain that made Sam wince and bite down against his lips, Dean pulled out, Sam’s hole clutching helplessly at the air. “What?” he demanded, looking vaguely affronted, like the fact that his dick had betrayed him was a personal slight. It rested against the curve of Sam’s hip, splurting a burst of pre-come when Sam’s hole twitched again. God, Dean just wanted to push back into the tight, wet, heat of Sam’s–

But Sam couldn’t quite remember what he was so concerned about. He shook his head. “I– Nevermind, I don’t know what I was–” but his words were cut off as Dean sunk back in and kissed his mouth shut.

That night in the motel bathroom, Sam found grazes on his back. He didn’t quite know how to feel. A bit shocked, maybe, a little turned on, but mostly relieved. If it was Sam who was fucking Dean, it meant no one else had been. He’d been fucking Dean from the start! The thought made him a little giddy. He left the shower with only a small towel on his waist, and the rest of the night disappeared from his memory.

It was fairly evident after that. The pieces came together: Sam woke up buck-ass naked and the locks on the motel door were still steadily in place (no one had entered at all), Sam’s towel was thrown over the side of the bed, there was a recently opened bottle of lube on the bedside, and Dean was equally bare next to him.

Basically, Sam was pretty blind for not noticing for so long. There was no way Dean couldn’t have realised. Had Dean just been letting it happen?

Sam started to push the hints, not getting up as early as usual, watching as Dean stirred and quietly slipped out of his arms in the mornings. But Dean didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t. So Sam went out and bought a bottle of lube, proudly, and set it down by the bed, put it in his duffle when they were travelling, making sure Dean always saw the thing sit into his bag.

His brother didn’t say a word. He avoided looking at it. Doubled up on the security around their motel rooms. Started discussing cures for the curse because it was fading out too slowly. Sam didn’t think it faded out slowly at all. Just last night he’d been on his laptop, in bed, when Dean crawled between his legs to pull down his pants and give him a long, intense blowjob. And Sam’d been lucid for at least half the ride.

“Holy shit, Dean,” Sam finally said, one day, because he’d been fully coherent for the last few hours and seriously, _seriously,_ Dean had to have realised by now. “I know repression’s like, your thing, but don’t you think this is taking it a little too far?”

“Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Sammy,” Dean grunted, his hips snapping forwards in a steady, relentless rhythm.

“Dean,” Sam said, voice oddly hitched, but that might have been because Dean had wrapped a hand around his cock. “I think–”

“–Sammy–”

“–No no, _Dean,_ your dick is literally up my _ass_ right now. Are we seriously not gonna talk about this?”

“Well,” Dean said, and pushed back in abruptly enough that Sam’s words were stolen away from him in a gasp. “I can work with that.”

“Dean, I swear– _ngh!”_ He arched upwards with a small cry. Dean’s mouth descended onto his chest, laving away at his abused nipples. “We’ve gotta– _ah_ – talk about this, come– come _on!_ ”

“Oh, I’m gonna _come_ , alright,” Dean growled, and the sound went straight to Sam’s cock that jerked between them. “Gonna come right in your ass, baby brother.” His thrusts picked up speed, pushing Sam against the covers until he came, filling Sam with liquid heat, pulling out surprisingly gently just to fit his mouth over Sam’s cock. Sam gave a whole-body jerk as Dean swallowed him down, hands burying themselves in Dean’s short hair as he came with everything he had, Dean’s throat fluttering around him.

The world was a bit hazy after that. He drifted into awareness with Dean sitting at the edge of the bed, wiping away the come sliding out from him. “Since when?” he managed.

“Come again?” Dean’s hands worked steadily on him, wiping away the come with deliberate strokes and dabs. He tossed away the washcloth after, then sat on the edge of the bed to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam couldn’t help but look. He’d seen his brother after sex plenty, given the last month, but it never ceased to floor him.

“Since when?”

“Sammy, if I hadn’t figured out there weren’t damn _strangers_ screwing you into the bed, do you really think I would’ve let this thing slide for so long?” He leaned over, no small amount of concern flickering in his eyes, as if the mere thought of Sam doing around like that worried him.

“So–”

“Early,” Dean finished, his lips set into a stern line. “Figured I’d’ve realised a lot earlier than you, nerd.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like the first conclusion I’d come to is the fact that I’m screwing my own _brother,_ Dean.” Sam felt strangely defensive of his obliviousness. It wasn’t– he’d had to grow immune to his Dean fantasies over the years, all right? He hadn’t survived for so long, unfound, without developing a certain resilience.

“Doesn’t look like you’ve got any objections to it, though, do you?”

Dean’s eyes were hooded, looking down at Sam. His arms had crept up at some point to bracket Sam’s body.

“No,” Sam whispered, before Dean leant down slowly and kissed him sweetly, nothing like the last hours. It was close-mouthed and gentle, not more than a press, their heads both tilting into it in a movement as natural as breathing.

He could feel Dean’s smile grow under his lips. It was the best feeling in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> the fact that dean ate meat in the morning was deeply scandalising for some reason. which is. uh. look, i just spent my day writing about two brothers taking it up the butt? who cares about a patty in the mornin'??
> 
> the story just got really weird, ok? i’m foraying into porn with weeny baby steps or some shit. i should’ve picked an easier plot to run with. what an absolute twat. i’m probably gonna write a fuck-or-die dangerously soon, because clearly the solution is to write more porn. 
> 
> look, this... is all just really telling of my depravities. wow.


End file.
